


Pretty When You Cry

by binary_hazard



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Aftermath, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Exhibitionism, Graphic Description, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Molestation, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Sexual Assault, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 01:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14322027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binary_hazard/pseuds/binary_hazard
Summary: “Oooh, you’re pretty! I promise not to bruise your face!”Trunks’ opponent, a man called Otokosuki, gets a little handsy during their fight.





	Pretty When You Cry

**Author's Note:**

> An interpretation, albeit a dark one, on the off-screen fight between Trunks and Otokosuki.
> 
> Note, I am in no way trying to paint homosexuality in a bad light, I just like really gross shit. Personally, I imagine Otoko to be very sweet but a little over the top and utterly shameless while wooing someone he fancies. Alas, he is not in this particular work.
> 
> I may or may not add another chapter full of comfort and mother/son bonding, but until that time, this will remain as a oneshot.
> 
> Title taken from VAST's _Pretty When You Cry_.

It was a warm, cloudless day on the day of the 28th Tenkaichi Budoukai. The sun cast it’s bright, summer light onto the stone-tiled ring where the announcer hyped and elicited loud cries from the rowdy audience. The crowd roared louder than rolling thunder, their collective cheers raucous and ear-splitting as it echoed around the large stadium. Trunks shook his head to relieve the uncomfortable grating against his eardrums, but the noise was inescapable. There was no reprieve from the din of the eager audience, nor any from the suggestive looks his opponent kept shooting him from across the locker room. 

Trunks had nothing against being gay, hell, he didn’t even know if he himself was gay or not, but this Otokosuki guy was something else.

The man was overwhelming in every sense of the word. Trunks wasn’t small by any stretch, no matter how much Goten liked to flaunt the inch he had on him, but Otokosuki dwarfed him by at least half a foot and was as broad as himself and Goten standing side by side. He was built like he bench-pressed train carriages in his spare time, his biceps wider than the saiyan was around the waist and his thighs so powerful he could probably kill a man between them. Trunks did not want to test that theory. 

Otokosuki, even dressed like a male stripper in his tight leather pants and knock-off policeman’s cap, was far more intimidating than he should be. 

Something was off about him. The man exuded something Trunks couldn’t quite place, but it made him instantly unsettled in his presence. He quickly looked away when Otokosuki caught him staring, face going red when the man blew him a sloppy kiss and winked with a giggle.

“Trunks, it’s your turn,” Goten said, nudging him towards the arena playfully. The lavender-haired teen gulped, reluctant about getting anywhere near Otokosuki, but forced a cocksure smirk and nodded in reply. His faux confidence didn’t fool Goten, he doubted it fooled anyone, and the other saiyan simply laughed at his hesitance. 

“Luck of the draw,” he sang with a shit-eating grin, and Trunks had to stop himself from punching his friend in the head. Instead, he turned away from Goten with a huff and marched towards the ring. 

All he needed to do was knock the guy out. He’d take twenty, maybe thirty seconds to do it, and then he’d be home free. It wouldn’t be too hard. A kick to the back of the head would do it, maybe a punch to the temple. If, kami forbid, he couldn’t manage that, he’d just have to throw Otokosuki out of the ring and be done with it. His father would have his head for it, but he’d rather spend a day in the gravity room being yelled at by Vegeta than more than five minutes in close quarters with Otokosuki.

After a few seconds of hyping himself up, Trunks stepped up onto the ring. He was greeted by a chorus of shrill screams and he had to stop himself from wincing at the sheer volume of it all.

_“Enter competitor nine, Trunks Briefs! Don’t let his charming allure deceive you, he was the winner of the children’s division in the 25th Tenkaichi Budoukai at the tender age of eight!”_ the Announcer exclaimed over the sound system, garnering more eager cries from the stands. 

Trunks refused to lose his composure in front of so many people, but he couldn’t stop himself from flushing. He didn’t know why he was so uncomfortable being in the spotlight like this, maybe it was because he was nervous, but he quickly schooled his features as best he could and forced a scowl. He hoped no one had noticed his brief lapse of emotion, but the announcer commented on his flustered state and laughed when he involuntarily reddened as a result. 

He could hear Goten guffawing from the locker room, the bastard. He shot his friend a glare, which did nothing to quell the saiyan’s giggles. Trunks felt himself become even more agitated, but he gritted his teeth and calmed himself with a few deep breaths through his nose.

He just needed to knock him out.

_“And here comes competitor ten, going by the stage name Otokosuki!”_

Speak of the devil. Trunks watched cautiously as said man flounced into the ring after him, shuddering when the man made sure to brush his shoulder against his innocuously as he pranced past. The touch, albeit light, made Trunks feel a coldness run through him, like a bucket of ice had been overturned on his head. He had no idea why he reacted so violently to such a seemingly harmless gesture, but it caused something like fear to take hold of him. Trunks, feeling far more disorientated and unsure than he had been in his life, watched as Otokosuki danced around the ring in his skimpy outfit and postured for the audience. A wall of deafening cheers was his reward.

“You look so nice all red and flushed, pretty boy,” Otokosuki shouted over the cacophony of cries, not the least bit daunted by the fact that the tens of thousands of people in the audience could probably hear him. “I wonder what you’d look like underneath me?”

Trunks took a step back, shocked by the man’s blatancy and strangely fearful. The saiyan shook his head, trying to lose the uncomfortable feeling settling in his stomach, and glowered weakly at Otokosuki as he eased into a fighting stance. This seemed to encourage the man, as he licked his lips with vigour before he, too, got into form.

_“Begin!”_

Trunks deepened his stance as Otokosuki begin to dash towards him, bracing for the oncoming barrage. The man’s eyes were zeroed in on his, the weight of his hungry gaze almost physical enough to immobilize him and pin him to the spot. The closer he got, the more the saiyajin’s legs felt like they were set in stone, and Trunks looked down to see that his thighs were trembling. He had never been so anxious in a fight before, not even against Majin Buu, but there he was, shaking like a deer caught in the headlights of a truck.

He sure felt like he’d been hit by one when Otokosuki slammed into him. Despite all his preparations for the older man’s onslaught, he had not been ready to be grappled into a tight embrace. He’d been waiting for a punch or a kick so he could abuse an opening in the man’s stance, not to be tackled with enough force to throw them both into the cement pavers. The wind was knocked out of him when Otokosuki’s chin pressed into his solar plexis, and he desperately panted for air as the man forced his body weight down on him. Trunks frantically struck out with his arms, clawing and punching anything he could reach. He hit Otokosuki in the face a few times, managed to grab hold of his shitty mustache and pull down on it hard enough to rip out a few hairs, but his weak flails were largely ineffective, if the man’s amused smile was anything to go by.

Trunks ceased his assault when Otokosuki delicately placed a thick finger on his lips. In any other circumstance, the teen would have moved to bite the other person’s hand, but he was filled with a sudden sense of apprehension at the action. A swooping feeling in his stomach that made his toes curl and a lump to form in his throat. He trembled involuntarily when the man slowly moved his finger down to his chin, pulling his quivering bottom lip down as he did. Trunks squeezed his eyes shut as the finger began to trace the ridges of his trachea and his adam’s apple before settling on the hollow of his throat. The man pushed down on the spot hard enough to cause discomfort, and the saiyan refused to open his eyes to see why Otokosuki had stopped. He let out a shuddering breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when the finger was replaced with a large hand. It slid back up to caress the supple skin of his throat, and Trunks' breathing quickened when another hand accompanied it.

Otokosuki’s thumbs pressed softly into his windpipe, almost like a silent threat, and Trunks’ eyes shot open when he felt the man’s fingers began to slowly but surely tighten around his neck.

The human loomed over him with a leer plastered on his tan face, and Trunks tensed when he leaned down, waves of mortification engulfing him as the man’s stubble rasped against his jaw and lips caressed the shell of his ear. Trunks began to writhe beneath Otokosuki, but his struggles ceased when two thumbs pressed down onto his trachea. Trunks wheezed, face becoming ruddy as he struggled for breath. A wave of goose flesh prickled his skin when the man breathed out a laugh against his ear, and he would have whimpered when the human’s teeth bit down on his earlobe if he wasn’t being choked. He just wheezed harder instead.

Had the group not collectively promise to only use hand-to-hand combat until they faced off against one another, Trunks would have blown this guy away. He was so incredibly tempted to place his hand on Otokosuki’s chest and blast him with enough ki to send him into the wall, fuck, to even get him off him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t bear to see Vegeta’s disappointed scowl, he didn’t want to get congratulated for his subpar performance from his mother, he didn’t want Goten to tease him. He had to get this bear of a man off him without relying on his powers, no matter if his arms felt like they were filled with wet sand and the edges of his vision were beginning to darken.

Trunks’ already red face became impossibly more so when Otokosuki started to whisper litanies of filthy sweet nothings into the side of his head, so incredibly flustered that he could feel his embarrassed flush spread down his throat. He tried to tune out the disgusting words the man kept muttering into his hair, but it was so incredibly hard to, especially when each sentence was punctuated with a hot, moist exhale that made his skin crawl and the firm press of two thumbs on his oesophagus. Otokosuki’s deep voice reverberated in his skull, and Trunks was very tempted to start screaming to drown it out. Well, try to.

“I knew you’d look so good underneath me. Bet you’d look even better riding my throbbing, hard _cock_ ,” Otokosuki moaned into his ear, throaty and disgustingly wet. Trunks’ whole body stiffened when the man emphasised his point with a small, dirty undulation of his hips. Bile burnt the back of the youth's tongue as he choked out a small, panicked noise between labored gasps, sounding not unlike a terrified animal. Trunks’ face drained of color went he felt something hard press against his sternum, and he sure as hell knew it wasn’t Otokosuki’s elbow. The teenager was filled with dread at this realization, although he had no idea why. All he knew was that he had to get away, and _right fucking now_.

A cocktail of humiliation and panic fueled him as he slammed the heel of his palm into Otokosuki’s unguarded throat. As soon as the pressure eased up from his chest and windpipe, he threw the man off him with a frenzied buck of his hips and crawled as far away from him as he could on his elbows. Otokosuki had the audacity to look at him as if he was actually _hurt_ that Trunks pushed him away, pouting like a child and clutching his chest in mock hurt. He ignored the blue eyes studying his form and pulled himself onto his feet, staggering slightly as he gasped for air. He was so lightheaded and dizzy that he almost keeled over, but he forced himself to stay upright through sheer determination as he inhaled deeply through his mouth. It hurt to breathe.

_“And Trunks finally manages to get out of Otokosuki’s grasp after a grueling thirty seconds! How much longer can the Briefs heir last in the ring with Otokosuki?”_

Before Trunks could even be angry at himself for taking such a long time to free himself, Otokosuki was sprinting at him, already recovered from the blow Trunks had dealt.

The human was far faster than he had anticipated, and Trunks would have been unable to dodge the punch aimed at his jaw had he not been a saiyan. Otokosuki’s assault was relentless, and the teen was forced onto the defensive as the man continued to dole out fast yet hard-hitting strikes. Trunks was able to block and weave past his opponents’ punches, elbows, kicks and knees for the most part, but his defense was slowly becoming weaker as his fatigue grew. 

Trunks had grown accustomed to the human’s rhythm when a hand brushed against his back. The touch had been fleeting, but it filled the saiyan with trepidation and he flinched away violently, his guard falling apart like wet origami. Otokosuki’s knee connected with his side, and the saiyan bit out a low groan as blood dribbled down his chin. He quickly regained his composure and snapped back into position, albeit rather disorientated. The man continued with this strategy, and Trunks, despite his growing paranoia, could never seem to catch him up. At seemingly random points in their combat, hands would stroke his chest, thighs, and face, sending him reeling into Otokosuki’s waiting strike.

He eventually broke the cycle after he forced himself to resist the urge to recoil from the hand rubbing against his lower abdomen. Otokosuki’s thick fingers were far, _far_ too close for comfort, fingertips just mere half inches from his crotch and moving. Trunks landed a solid front kick on Otokosuki’s knee while the latter was caught off guard, and the saiyan whimpered when the action pushed the hand down lower. As the human’s knee buckled under his own weight and forced him to the floor, Trunks took the time to put some distance between them. 

His body ached all over, and a shudder travelled down his spine when he felt phantom fingers ghosting his skin. He didn’t think he’d last much longer if Otokosuki kept this strategy up.

“You look so lovely all bloody and dishevelled,” the man cooed, already back on his feet and starting towards Trunks. The latter sneered feebly, bringing his hands up in a defensive form as his opponent drew nearer. “I wonder if I could make you scream?”

And with that, Otokosuki was charging at him like a bull in a matador ring.

The saiyan was prepared for his lunge this time, sliding underneath the man when he dove for the tackle and kicking him in the chest with both feet. Otokosuki made a winded sound as was propelled into the air. Trunks flew up to deliver a hammer fist to the back of the prone man’s head, sending him into the concrete pavers with a loud crack. From his neck or his spine, he didn’t know, but the match was over. There was no way that pervert was getting up after that one. 

Trunks landed clumsily on the balls of his feet, stumbling slightly but correcting himself before he teetered over onto his face. He didn’t spare Otokosuki a cursory glance as he walked away from the sizeable crater the man was laying in.

_“Has Trunks done it? Did he put down that beast of a man with that display of incalculable speed—”_

A hand wrapped around Trunks’ ankle and with it a familiar feeling of coldness filled his chest cavity. Before he could even react, a hard tug had him on his knees and a hulking mass has situated itself onto the small of his back. Otokosuki was straddling him once again, and Trunks fruitlessly tried to find purchase on the cement pavers with his fingertips to pull himself away. The man wordlessly grabbed a fistful of his lavender hair and smashed his face into the floor with far more force than Trunks thought possible from him. Blood spurted out of his nose and the new gash across his eyebrow, beads rolling into his right eye and staining his teeth a red tinge. Otokosuki yanked his head back up with a rough tug, pulling loose some of Trunks’ hair has he did so.

“Now that wasn’t very nice, sweetheart,” the man crooned sweetly. Trunks shuddered at his cheery tone and clamped his eyes shut, trying to block out the hot twinge of his broken nose. “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson now.”

The saiyan had no idea by what the man meant by that, but he did _not_ want to find out. In a panic to get out from underneath him, Trunks rammed his elbows into Otokosuki’s sides in a blind assault. When that did nothing, he threw back his right fist in an attempt to catch the man in the chin. Trunks froze when the human caught his wrist in a vice-like grip, grinding his ulna and radius together as he slowly pulled the arm backwards. The teen’s stomach knotted when the man didn’t stop, breathing harshly out of his nose in discomfort as a strain began to build in his shoulder. He had no idea when his arm would finally give way, especially when Otokosuki was tugging it back at such a tedious pace. Trying to break free of his grip only caused more pain and staying still would just prolong the torture of waiting for the inevitable. He was utterly helpless, the first time he’d ever been in his life, and he hated it. He clenched his jaw, bracing himself.

“Sorry, cutie, but it has to be done!”

Trunks’ shot open when his humerus was forced out from his shoulder with a resounding _pop_ , strings of bloody spittle flying from his lips as he let out a tortured shriek. The Announcer winced into his microphone as the sound echoed around the stadium, and the saiyan could hear his mother’s horrified cries from her seat in the boxes. He did everything in his power not to look at her.

“Ahh, music to my ears,” Otokosuki crooned as he dropped Trunks’ limp arm unceremoniously, sending another bolt of hot pain up his arm. The saiyan wheezed out soft, half-stifled whimpers, enraged and humiliated when he felt tears build in his eyes. 

_“Otokosuki has dislocated Trunks’ shoulder in a brutal display! Will he tap out, or will he endure and try for a ring out? What will you do, Trunks?!”_

What the fuck would he do? It seemed that Otokosuki wasn’t going to go down as easily as he hoped he would, so a ring out would be the smartest thing to do. Would he launch himself at the man and push him out, or would he lift him and throw him out?

All semblance of strategic thought went out the window when Otokosuki reached for his other arm.

His lizard-brain took full control and he quickly emitted a blast of ki from every part of his body, not caring that he was breaking the rules set in place by the Z Fighters.

Otokosuki was sent crashing to the other side of the arena, and to Trunks’ luck, he smashed his head. Maybe he’d be knocked out, maybe he’d been that lucky, but the saiyan wasn’t about to be caught making the same mistake he’d made before. He couldn’t underestimate this man.

He climbed onto his feet, wavering slightly and trying to ignore the pulsating ache in his right shoulder. Otokosuki was slowly but steadily rising from his supine position, and Trunks took the opportunity to run towards the man and deal some damage while he was unguarded, swaying dangerously on his feet. Just as the human had pulled himself into a sitting position, Trunks landed a double flying side kick squarely on his chin. The man’s head snapped backwards in an almost comical fashion before the momentum of the saiyan’s kick threw his upper body back into the concrete pavers. Trunks landed partially on top of Otokosuki’s abdomen and directly onto his newly dislocated shoulder. The teen howled out in pain, rolling off the dazed man and onto the floor with a string of harsh curses falling from his lips.

_“Ouch! That one had to hurt, folks! But did it pay off?! Is Otokosuki finally down for the count?!”_

Trunks clutched trembling bicep tightly with his left hand as he scrambled back onto his feet, trying to keep his shoulder from being jostled any further. Each minuscule movement sent pain flaring through his dislocated joint, and he had almost been blinded by it when he’d landed on top of Otokosuki. Said man was still on the floor, blood oozing out from the sides of his mouth and soaking into his mustache.

Seeing this, the saiyan quickly bracketed the man’s head with his knees before laying waste to his face with his fisted left hand. He landed strike after strike after strike, screaming hoarsely into the unresponsive man’s face as the former’s nose caved under his blow with a satisfying crunch. Blood covered Otokosuki’s tan skin, spurting from his own nose and dribbling down from Trunks’ gaping mouth. 

Otokosuki stirred underneath him, and Trunks felt that same primal fear take hold of him when blue eyes cracked open and sent him a slow, very intentional wink. The saiyan brought his fist back past his head and went to deliver a strike to the man’s throat, but before the hit connected, Otokosuki’s hand was wrapped around his. Thick, calloused fingers enveloped Trunks’ trembling fist and squeezed down, evoking a raw cry as fragile bones grinded together. The human tightened his grip before forcing the boy off him with a harsh shove, sending him careening into the cement like a sack of flour.

Trunks gasped harshly into the floor, blooded drooling collecting in a puddle as he attempted to pull his shaking body back up. His forehead pressed into the pavers, too heavy to keep upright anymore, and he closed his eyes while he forced himself into a crawling position, frame quivering with effort. He’d barely managed to get his face up from the floor when a hand grabbed his ankle once more.

The saiyan’s insides filled with lead, hot and heavy. “No,” he whimpered wetly, gasping sharply after an unforgiving tug knocked his hand out from underneath him and sent his front back onto the floor, dazing him. A burst of hot, coppery blood filled his mouth and oozed out between his lips after his teeth buried themselves into his tongue. His hand searched blindly for something to grab onto as he was pulled across the stone tiles, fingertips torn bloody and nails ripping off. 

“Yes,” Otokosuki replied, sounding far too excited for Trunks’ liking. 

All he got for a warning was a squeeze around his ankle before he was thrown over Otokosuki’s shoulder and slammed down into the cement pavers. The force of it cracked the stone and a few ribs, the latter eliciting a choked wheeze out of Trunks. Bright red stained the floor and the saiyan’s jaw, blood seeping out between his gritted teeth and splattering onto the tile. 

The grip on his ankle tightened, and Trunks could feel the bruises already forming. “No,” he repeated, far weaker and gruffer this time.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard your voice,” Otokosuki said, sounding quite pleased. His hand creeped slowly down the teen’s calf, fingers digging into the flesh as they traveled further up his leg. Trunks moaned out when the human pressed down on a tender spot just above his knee, failing to stifle the noise in time. Otokosuki applied more force, enjoying his pained mewls. “Sounds so pretty all raw and wet for me.”

Trunks shivered when he felt fingertips burrowing into his upper leg, the bite of the human’s nails in his inner thigh making an uncomfortable weight settle in the pit of his stomach. He was waiting in fear for what came next, waiting for that wondering hand to crawl up a little further north, but it never did. Instead, the heel of Otokosuki’s leather boot came crashing down on his lower spine, eliciting breathless scream that tore through his throat like a rusty sword.

Dark spots dotted Trunks’ vision, the agony shooting up his vertebrae almost unbearable. The saiyan didn’t have the energy to struggle anymore, but that didn’t stop him from trying to push himself back up with his left arm, no matter how fruitless the attempt was.

Otokosuki’s other hand settled somewhere near his knee, and the teen had no idea what he had planned when a familiar strain began to pull on his hip.

“No,” Trunks muttered into the stone tiles, sounding not unlike a small child. “Stop.”

The pressure in his joint continued to grow, muscles feeling close to tearing as his femur was forced backwards to an unnatural degree. He could do nothing as Otokosuki continued to push his leg forward, pinned down underneath his pure brawn and entirely at his mercy. His hip was just about ready to burst under the human’s exertion, and Trunks ground his teeth together when a particularly sharp spike of pain flared up in his thigh. Even though he knew it was coming, he still hadn’t been able to brace for the mind-numbing pain that consumed him when his femur dislodged from his hip with noise that sounded an awful lot like a gunshot. He shrieked high and loud, but Otokosuki cut him short with a press of his heel in between the grooves of his vertebrae.

_“And Otokosuki has dislocated yet another of Trunks’ limbs! How will our young challenger win under his very distressing circumstances?!”_

The human released his leg just as he had Trunks’ right arm, almost throwing the appendage to the floor like it offended him. The saiyan bit down on a shout and instead clenched his left hand in a loose fist, hissing as sharp twinges of pain travelled up his arm. The pressure on his lower back eased as the foot was removed, and he released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He didn’t even want to win anymore. He just to get out of this ring. He wanted to sleep. He wanted it to end. He didn’t care anymore if Vegeta was going to cold shoulder him for a week, or if Goten ribbed him about it for months to come. He couldn’t do this anymore. It was humiliating, and if he had to pick between being embarrassed by his father or by this pervert, he’d pick the former ten times over. At least his father never hurt him this badly. Well, on purpose.

Before he could cede his defeat, Otokosuki grabbed a fistful of his lilac hair and pulled him onto his knees. Trunks winced in pain, nose twisting and eyes narrowing with it. The man rubbed something hot and hard against the back of his neck, and he tensed up, knowing exactly what it was. The throbbing erection pressed persistently into his nape, and Trunks’ mouth filled with bile when a dampness began to soak the front of the man’s leather pants. The warm, wet fabric rubbed against his skin as Otokosuki let out a throaty moan, not at all ashamed of himself. Trunks, on the other hand, was quickly becoming the same color as Buu, mortified beyond comprehension.

“Ahh, I’m so glad I got you,” Otokosuki groaned, pulling Trunks out of his thoughts. A hand placed itself on the young saiyan’s shoulder, fingers toying with the strap of his black wife beater and sliding beneath it. Trunks pulled his head to the side despite the tight grip on his hair, trying to ignore the hot fingers pressing into his clavicle. “You were so much fun,” he added, emphasizing his point with a shallow gyration of his hips against the back of the teen’s ear, making sure he could fully understand what he meant by _fun_.

Trunks couldn’t even reply, tongue thick in his mouth. 

He’d lost.

He gulped, waiting for the final blow.

It never came.

Instead, Otokosuki released him. He fell face first onto the concrete pavers, but he didn’t have it in him to even react to the burst of pain it reignited in his broken nose. He watched in a daze as the human walked towards the edge of the ring, and something stuck in Trunks’ throat when Otokosuki bowed deeply to the crowd before jumping onto the grass below.

_“What’s this? Otokosuki has left the ring in a shocking turn of events! Trunks Briefs wins by default!”_

The teenager had never been so fucking bewildered in his life, and he managed to prop himself up on his elbow just as the Announcer arrived at his little crater. The blond man squatted down to his level, and Trunks wanted nothing more than to roll over and pass out.

“So, Trunks, how do you feel after that, er, fight?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he forced himself up into a kneeling position despite the blinding ache of his dislocated hip with whatever energy he could muster and wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his left hand. He winced, but at least he could see a little better now. The Announcer was sending him an expectant look, and the saiyan stared down pointedly at his legs.

“I- I can’t stand,” Trunks noted dully, softer than he expected from himself. His own voice echoed around the stadium on the sound system, and he winced at how scared he sounded. He flushed even darker, and he’d never understood the wish for one to get swallowed up by the floor until that moment. He was beyond humiliated.

“I mean, he did dislocate your leg, kiddo!” The Announcer replied with a smile, something practiced and not at all sincere. He laughed, also entirely fake, before schooling his features. “Speaking of. In your condition, I’m afraid you won’t be able to continue competing.”

The crowd booed and jeered, but all Trunks could manage was a quiet, “Oh.”

The Announcer clapped his back in condolence before standing up to address the restless crowd. 

_“We’ll be taking a fifteen minute break to clean and repair the ring! Please feel free to visit the food stalls located at the entrance of the stadium while you wait!”_

Trunks stared dumbly at the pool of blood where his face had been a few minutes prior, not quite sure what to do with himself. The cacophony of the audience became white noise in his ears, the once distracting din dying down as he retreated into himself. Everything but the deep ache in his bones and the tattoo of his heart beat pounding in his head just disappeared. Everything but one question.

Why?

Otokosuki had dominated him in the fight, no matter how he sliced it. He was the rightful winner. So why had he been posturing and dancing around like he’d won the tournament when he’d threw it all away? What was the point of fighting all the way to the finals and obliterating his first opponent only to forfeit?

Surely, this wasn’t Otokosuki’s end game. 

It all seemed so pointless to battle his way to the semi-finals only to chase a cheap thrill once— _if_ —the opportunity presented itself. He hadn’t really done this just to fulfill his sick little fantasies, right? To have a wank at one of the biggest events of the year? Was this all on a fucking whim, on the off-chance he’d get paired up with an opponent he could victimize and humiliate?

Trunks didn’t understand. He _couldn’t_ understand. Had he planned to do this to whoever he was matched up with? Would he have had the balls to do this had he been matched up with Vegeta or Goku? Would they have even allowed themselves to be put in this sort of position, let alone get pushed around and forced into it? What if this sick fuck had been matched with Pan? Surely, he wouldn’t have been depraved enough to rub one off on the back of a four year old’s neck, right? And Goten? Would this bastard have tried to pull this shit on Goten? 

Or maybe Otokosuki had only done this because Trunks ended up being his partner. Why him? What made him of all the competitors look like the easiest target? Was it because of that fucking inch Goten had on him? Was it because he was younger? What the fuck was it?

_You’re pretty._

He shuddered.

He hated how used he felt.

A hand pressed down on his shoulder.

Trunks flinched backwards violently as he was forcibly pulled from his thoughts, and he bit down on his tongue when the sudden movement jostled his dislocated arm. The hand recoiled with just as much fervor as he had from it.

“Hey, man, it’s me. Are you alright?”

Goten.

He couldn’t even look up at him.

Trunks was supposed to be a fucking saiyan. He wasn’t supposed to lose, to be overpowered. He wasn’t supposed to be beaten so easily, let alone by someone dressed like a goddamn stripper. Kami, he’d never felt so defeated before, and it was by a man that Vegeta could have probably killed with little less than a swift kick to the sternum.

And what had he done?

He got dominated and absolutely humiliated in front of thousands of people. He couldn’t even put up a good fight, too scared of Otokosuki and too weak to even land a decent blow. Hell, Goten himself could have probably cleaned the floor with the fucker, but no, not Trunks. He was too busy being toyed with.

How the fuck could he call himself a fighter after this?

“Trunks, you gotta move. They’re trying to clean the ring,” Goten said, but the lavender-haired teen didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“I can’t,” he said, hating how fragile he sounded. “He- my leg.”

“Oh.”

Goten awkwardly crouched down before grabbing Trunks’ left arm and slinging it around his neck, the contact making something sick and cloying bubble underneath the older boy’s skin. His stomach churned, but he bore through the unusual discomfort, fisting the back of his friend’s shirt. Goten lifted him a few inches clear of the ground before placing one arm carefully underneath the bends of his knees. They both winced when Trunks’ dislocated hip was jostled. 

“You OK, buddy?”

He just nodded and pressed his face against the dark-haired boy’s shoulder, trying to ignore the growing unease building in his chest while Goten began to walk to the locker rooms. He smelt of sweat and damp soil, but Trunks took an odd comfort in his friend’s scent. He pressed his nose into the hollow of the Son’s throat, trying to eke out whatever comfort he could from the gnawing emptiness trying to eat him whole. The younger boy didn’t seem to mind, and Trunks wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He noted that he was getting blood all over his friend’s favorite shirt when he heard his mother’s voice calling out to him.

“Hey, Miss Briefs,” Goten greeted, “Trunks, I’m gonna put you down on the bench, OK?”

He hesitated, tightening his grip on Goten despite the tar boiling just beneath his skin.

“Trunks,” Goten repeated. “Dude, are you sure you’re alright?”

Embarrassed, he nodded his head sharply and started to climb out of his friend’s hold. His hip was knocked in the scuffle to get him onto the seat, as was to be expected, but he lowered his eyes when they accidentally locked with his mother’s.

He felt so guilty for worrying her. She should be smiling and celebrating his easy win against his opponent, but she looked like she was going to cry at the sight of him instead. All because he’d been too fucking weak to knock Otokosuki out. She was never _ever_ supposed to look like that, and to be the cause of it made his heart hurt.

His mother knelt in front of him and attempted to catch his gaze, but he just lowered his head, obscuring his eyes from her with his bloodied bangs.

“Trunks, sweetie, look at me,” she said softly. She was trying to be strong for him, but he could hear the way her voice cracked and how it made her sound so very terrified. It made his chest twinge in guilt, and he wanted nothing more than to just make her smile again.

So he did.

“I’m fine, promise,” he managed, forcing himself to look up at her with a small grin. Said grin was just as weak as he was, his teeth stained bloody and lips quivering. He couldn’t maintain eye contact with her for longer than a second, and his facsimile of a smile broke when she leveled him with a wet, yet firm stare.

What was he supposed to say? That he hated how frail he was? That he felt so incredibly violated and dirty after his fight? That he just wanted to go home and sleep? That he was humiliated?

Obviously, he wasn’t going to say any of that. Not if he wanted her to get off his back and leave him alone.

“I just didn’t expect to get beaten by him,” he admitted truthfully, hoping it’d be enough to get her to go away so he could go sulk in the showers. Well, after someone put his arm and leg back into their respective joints and set his broken nose.

“Man, he was creepy! He was all touchy feely with Trunks during the whole fight!” Goten added loudly, and Trunks would have told him to shut the fuck up if his breath hadn’t caught in his throat. An involuntarily shudder ran through him, and he fucking hated how he was reacting at even the mention of Otokosuki. His mother’s eyes bored holed into his head.

Her hand rested gently on his good knee, and he wanted to punch himself when he flinched underneath her feathery touch. 

She pulled away like she’d been burnt, and he didn’t even want to imagine the hurt look on her face.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he being such a wimp? He knew she wasn’t going to hurt him, but his body still recoiled at her loving caress. She was his mother, for kami’s sake. All she’d been trying to do was physically comfort him, and he just cringed away from her like she was something dirty.

Otokosuki had done something to him, he didn’t know what, but he didn’t fucking like it. It made him want to crawl out of his skin, made him want to burrow under his blankets and never come out. Their fight hadn’t even been that long, but this man had managed to plant something rotten inside him, and he didn’t know how or when he’d done it. Whatever it was, he wanted it out of him.

And he didn’t want his mother to know about it.

But his mouth wouldn’t open, jaw wound so tight that his teeth ground together painfully. He wanted to refute what Goten had said, dismiss his claims and wave off his mother’s worry, but a lump began to grow in the back of his throat, making it hard to breathe.

He could see his mother struggling in his peripheral vision, desperate to embrace him but not wanting to hurt him. Her hands hovered uncertainly in the air, aching to comfort but scared to wound. The hands eventually fell into her lap, defeated.

“Trunks, sweetie,” she tried, voice lost and unsure. “I know you’re hurting right now, but you need to tell me what’s wrong so I can help, okay? Nod if you understand.”

He shook his head violently. 

He didn’t know why he didn’t want her to know, but he felt like it was something he should keep a secret. He knew, logically, he should probably tell her, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing. He knew that she knew already, or had at least jumped to some conclusions, but there was something about admitting it to her that made his stomach turn uncomfortably. Maybe she’d see him differently? Maybe she’d think he was overreacting? Maybe she’d just file it away and never talk about it again. He didn’t know how she’d take it, and maybe that was why he didn’t want her to know.

Even then, he was guessing.

It was then that he realized his leg was shaking. 

“Trunks, please. I just want to help,” she said, almost begging.

His mouth still wouldn’t open.

His vision blurred.

“Goten, could you please go fetch a medic? I need to speak to my son alone.”

The Son cast Trunks a brief glance before nodding and running off, leaving the two Briefs alone in the locker room. The woman tried yet again to meet the boy’s gaze, but his blue eyes evaded hers. He’d never been so guarded with his mother before, and he knew he was scaring her. He was scared, too.

There was something wrong with him. He’d never been a hesitant person, nor a very secretive one. This sort of behavior was very much new to him, and he had no idea why he was acting this way. He hated it. He wanted it out of him. He wanted him out.

He breathed out what he could only describe as a whine, high and reedy and entirely pathetic sounding.

Something hot and wet rolled down his cheek.

His mother could do nothing but watch as he started to cry, unable to hold him and unsure of what to say. He let out a sob, and he couldn’t even wipe the tears away, left hand trembling so hard he could feel the vibration travelling up his arm. He clenched the hand in a loose fist to try to stop the shaking, but it only seemed to grow stronger.

Frustration filled him like molten lava and he slammed his hand down onto his knee, and the feeling left as quickly as it had come when he realized he’d just punched his dislocated leg. He mewled weakly between gritted teeth, doubling over slowly as pain engulfed him, a buzzing filling his head. He could dimly hear his mother asking if he was OK, and he sluggishly shook his head, pursing his lips and groaning lowly.

He could feel tears falling onto the back of his hand, and the urge to punch himself again grew. Maybe if he gave himself something substantial to cry about, he’d stop feeling so weird.

Fat chance.

“Trunks,” his mother repeated. “You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

He nodded, tears slipping down his face as he closed his eyes.

She sighed, and he could hear her fingers run though her blue hair, something she did when she was anxious. “Did he touch you?”

He faltered.

He could almost feel fingers wriggling underneath his skin, clawing and digging into his flesh. Oily and heavy, they pressed into him, trying to invade him, perverse him. He felt dirty and violently nauseated, a film of something greasy and gag-inducing coating his throat. He couldn’t breathe, slick thumbs pressing down on his adam’s apple and crushing his windpipe. Fingertips like spider’s legs creeped down his stomach, and he could feel bile fill his mouth when they—

Trunks nodded.

Gulping down acid, he shook himself, trying to shake loose the disgusting phantom hands haunting his skin.

“Oh, baby,” his mother muttered, voice thick with tears. She let out a soft, wet breath, and he knew she was trying not to cry. She sniffled and swallowed loudly before talking again, composing herself as best she could. “After we get you fixed up, you and I are going home, and- and we’ll work this out, OK? Just you and me. If you want to.”

He desperately wanted to hug her, to comfort her, but he didn’t want to feel that sickening pit in his stomach, so he just nodded vigorously, biting down on his bloody lips to stifle a sob.

Trunks could hear footsteps approaching, so he quickly rubbed his face against his left shoulder to wipe the tear tracks off his cheeks and swallowed down the cloying lump in his throat. He didn’t need anyone else to know he’d been crying.

“Hey, Miss Briefs, I got the medic,” Goten announced before moving to lean against the wall, eyes following the portly woman who pottered over towards Trunks. His mother quickly moved out of her way and walked over to stand beside Goten, wiping her nose on the back of her hand as she sniffed. 

The medic looked up at him. “Which arm?”

“Right,” he replied after a few seconds, voice hoarse.

“How long does relocating a bone take?” Goten asked curiously.

“Oh, not long,” the medic replied, grabbing his arm firmly. He balked, and from the corner of his eye, he could see that his mother had, too. “Shoulders back, relax.”

He did as he was told, and after three movements of his arm, he felt a satisfying crack in his shoulder has his joint was relocated. 

“See? Done,” she said, looking over at Goten with a kind smile. The Son reciprocated in kind. “Now, you’ll need to lay down for this one, and I’ll need one of you two to hold onto one of his ankles.”

Goten jumped at the offer, and Trunks had to restrain himself from kicking out when hands tightened around his ankles after he’d complied to the medic’s commands, albeit with a little difficulty. He closed his eyes, and a few seconds later, his hip was reunited with his femur with a soft pop.

“Whoa!” The dark-haired saiyan exclaimed, wonder evident in his voice. “That was awesome!”

“Not so awesome for him, I’d say,” she replied, and Trunks had to look away when she gave him a piteous look.

The medic left soon after setting the saiyan’s broken nose, and all Trunks had managed was a whispered, “Thanks,” but he doubted she’d heard at all as she’d already started to amble away by the time he’d gotten it out.

Frowning with effort, the lavender-haired boy pulled himself onto his feet, ignoring his mother’s pleas for him to rest for a few minutes. To his surprise, he didn’t immediately topple over, so he took it as a sign that it was time to leave.

And leave they did. 

Goten was waving at him in the rear-view mirror of the beat-up VW buggie his mother had uncapsuled as they drove away, the saiyan becoming nothing but a dot on the horizon that Trunks stared at until it disappeared like a snowflake in a puddle of water.

He just wrapped his hands around his seatbelt in a white knuckled grip and pressed forehead against the window, watching the condensation of his breath frost the glass.

His mother didn’t talk, but he could feel her careful gaze on him during lulls in traffic.

Trunks closed his eyes, allowing sleep to take hold of him.

Maybe being unconscious would settle the volatile bubbling underneath his skin.

Probably not.

**Author's Note:**

> If any tags need to be added, please tell me in the comments below. Thanks for reading!


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